Fire Walk With Me
by tripodion
Summary: "Through the darkness of future past, the magician longs to see. One chants out between two worlds... Fire, walk with me." The woods are wondrous here, but strange, and the owls are not what they seem. And Sherlock Holmes is about to turn everything upside down and inside out, John Watson included.
1. The Woman in Pink

**Welcome! As a long-time fan of both Sherlock Holmes and Twin Peaks, I decided why not combine them?**

 **You don't have to have seen Twin Peaks for this to make sense as it's an AU, but the show is well worth a viewing. It's weird, it's unsettling, it's bizarrely funny and completely unique.**

 **This chapter (and to an extent the next one) follows the Twin Peaks pilot very closely, but as the story continues it will diverge from the events of the first season in varying degrees.**

* * *

It was a warm morning for February. This far north, you were lucky if all you got was fog, and for once John can see clearly across Black Lake, the water grey-looking in the cloudy morning as it churned up the dark, crisp reflections of the firs and pines. Heavy clouds draped the pewter sky, swollen and slowly lumbering towards the horizon.

The kettle clicked as the water boiled away, gussets of steam billowing into the cold air. Heating the house through the night cost money that he didn't have. So he made do.

He had just left his tea to steep when his phone rang.

"Greg," he greets cheerfully, "how's the morning look?"

"John."

His friend's tone was curt, professional. Wrong. Something was wrong.

"John, there's been…we've found a body."

He stands, stool scraping against cheap linoleum. A body in their jurisdiction was so uncommon it was almost implausible; he hadn't been called in for forensics at a crime scene in years, and certainly not since he was invalided back from the bloodthirsty desert to his sleepy little hometown.

"Where?" He says, already shrugging into his coat. "The VC Mill? Got it. On my way."

"John?"

He pauses as he grabs his keys, struck by the tone of Lestrade's voice, serious and cautionary.

"Just…prepare yourself." He sighs. "I'll see you in ten. Drive safe."

"He thought it was trash at first," Lestrade begins, stepping over a tangle of driftwood as he leads John down to the rocky beach. "Looked like a big mess of plastic bags from a distance. He went closer, and found…well, he found her."

They round a large fallen slab of tree trunk and walk up to a bundle of plastic sheeting, wrapped and taped tightly around an unmistakably human form. Through the opaque material, John can just make out shades of long blonde hair.

"You've already taken the photos?" John asks, pulling a pair of proffered nitrile gloves on.

"Yeah, Henry took care of it. All that's left is to…to turn her over."

His friend looks as if he hasn't slept in a year, haggard and tired in the cold, weakly lit morning. He gestures to Lestrade, "When you're ready."

Together, they grasp at either end and turn the body onto its back. John wipes his dampened hands against his trousers, gritty from river silt and sand, as Lestrade opens the tarp. Dark smells permeate the air, smells of grimy river water, of dirt and the waterlogged commencement of decay.

Her earrings are still on, little studs of pink diamonds. John can barely bring himself to look at her face, instead opting for one more brief moment of ignorance before he can turn his eyes to her.

"My God…" Lestrade steps back, a hand over his mouth. Behind them, Henry bursts into loud tears as he raises the forensics camera.

The flash goes off. She looks as if she's only dreaming, dreaming someplace far away.

John's stomach drops. He knows her. Of course he knows her. She'd been at the clinic only yesterday, stopping by to get anxiety medication for her mother. He just saw her, alive and well, standing in his office. And here she is now: naked, dirty, dead. Murdered.

And here she is now:

"Rachel Wilson."

* * *

"Irene Adler."

A lone, well-manicured hand raises.

"Martha Grimes."

"Here."

"Molly Hooper."

"Present." Molly replies, raising her hand.

The seat next to her is empty. Molly glances at the clock as the teacher rattles off names: it's 7:25 AM. Rachel should be here in homeroom by now.

"William Wiggins."

Toying with her pencil, Molly glances back, to the corner where Will sits. Their eyes meet and together they look down at the empty desk.

"Rachel Wilson." The teacher glances up, repeating once more: "Rachel Wilson?"

She's been late to class before. She could be sick or running late or at the doctor's. A multitude of reasons. She probably slept in; she'd been doing that a lot lately, missing bits and pieces of class, coming in late or not at all. She was descending into one of her black moods again, Molly could tell, she knew her like the back of her hand—

A knock on the door.

"Room 106?" A voice asks, stepping into the room. Molly's heart lurches. A cop. A cop who looks penitent. She casts a worried look over to Will, who straightens in his seat.

As he pulls their teacher aside, a girl runs past their classroom window, screaming wildly, screaming—why is she screaming?

The policeman nods solemnly and leaves. Their teacher's eyes dart to the seat beside her.

Rachel's seat.

Their teacher swallows nervously, pulling on a shaky smile in an attempt at calming the class. "There will be an…announcement soon, from the principal."

And Molly knows. She _knows_. This feeling that has draped itself around her since Rachel started missing classes and avoiding her calls, since she started glossing over Molly's concerns with a smile; since she started using again.

Molly snaps her pencil in half.

She and Will look at each other, over the empty seat.

"Rachel."

That is all Molly can say before she descends into tears.

* * *

"This is Principal Wolchezk. I am…deeply saddened to have to tell you that, early this morning, your classmate Rachel Wilson was found dead.

This is a terrible moment for all of us. For all of us who knew her—her friends, her family…it is very important that we all try to help each other through this difficult time.

The police have asked me to ask each of you if you have any information on Rachel's activities after school yesterday or yesterday evening…please come forward.

I am dismissing all classes for the day, but before we leave I would like to ask each of you to join me in a moment of silence for Rachel, and her dear memory."

* * *

"Martha? Martha can you hear me?"

Head already beginning to loll on her shoulders, she makes a feeble effort to move, but settles for opening her eyes.

The sheriff's here—Lestrade—and she couldn't stop crying, so they shot her full of liquid calm. Somewhere, in the back of her consciousness, there's a great, wide gap threatening to swallow her, but for now she's among the clouds, where it's cool and peaceful. Everything's alright.

"Martha—Mrs. Wilson, can you tell us what time it was when you last saw Rachel?"

When you last saw her she'll never see Rachel again Rachel Rachel Rachel her daughter her baby, everything's not alright. Rachel's gone she's gone but it all feels so far away something to deal with later when she can cry until there's nothing left—

"Mrs. Wilson?"

"Time…" She murmurs. "Time…uh, it would have—would have been around nine at night. Nine PM. Yes, nine…o'clock…."

She glances towards the foyer and her lips tremble.

"Right there. She walked right up those stairs. She…she was just here. Going up those stairs."

John sits beside Mrs. Wilson on the loveseat, keeping a respectful but wary distance. It was hard enough getting her to calm down; it'd taken nearly four tries just to get the sedative in her. She's gripping his hand with enough force that he can feel the bones of his fingers rubbing together underneath his skin.

He couldn't fathom her loss, but he knew this kind of grief. That howling wind that took you away, down into the dark parts of the river; down, down…down into the dark. You always floated down there, never really knew where you were, never really cared. Surfacing was the trouble, and he wasn't so sure Martha Wilson had the emotional fortitude to break out of the water. She'd always been nervous, anxious, like she'd been waiting her whole life for something to crush her.

Seeing her now, this was crushing her. This _had_ crushed her.

Martha's hand tenses in his.

"Who's upstairs?" She asks, with a sudden clarity and fear that John believes he might have to get another sedative.

"Your husband, and one of my officers." Lestrade says, following her stricken gaze to the ceiling.

Martha deflates into the cushions. "I know by the sounds…that it isn't her. I know it isn't here. Not anymore."

John turns away, listening to the footsteps above.

* * *

The first thing that struck her about Rachel's room was that it was so…ordinary.

A bed up against the far wall, covered in floral print pink sheets. A little rolltop desk across from it, littered with tchotchkes and knick-knacks. A wicker rocking chair. A small white rug.

It could be any teenage girl's room. Void of any real personality, achingly clean, and in a pale shade of pink. She hadn't seen the body yet, but Amanda had told her about the call when she'd checked-in at the station. A murdered prom queen, a break-in at the hospital, and that missing girl being found. What a night.

She continues sorting through Rachel's personal items, passing over binders of neatly organized schoolwork that would never be finished and cheap paperback books that won't be read.

"A diary?" She asks, turning to Rachel's father, sitting on the bed clutching at one of his daughter's pillows.

"Hm?" He looks down at it, staring at the book hard for a moment. "Do you—ah—do you have to keep that, Officer Donovan?"

"We'll return it as soon as possible."

"Are you—you're sure?"

She purses her lips. _His daughter's just died. Be nice_.

"Yes, sir." She smiles. "I'm sure."

A few miles away, a car passes down a long, quiet, overcast road, hemmed in by the looming misting mountains in the distance.

* * *

"11:30 AM. February 24th. Entering the town of Twin Peaks, 5 miles south of the Canadian border, 12 miles west of the State line. Copious amounts of trees; the species is certainly thriving. 12 degrees Celsius on a slightly overcast day. Rain is predicted.

Mileage on the car is 79 345; gauge is on reserve. Note to record the price of gas upon the next town. Lunch was $1.63. I had three cups of coffee, plain. Any assurance that Americans know what the word tea means has been so downtrodden and rejected as to render it nonexistent.

I will be meeting with one Sheriff Gregory Lestrade—should be easy to remember—at the local hospital to interview this magical missing girl, one Ronette Pulaski. Names these days. Afterwards, I will look for accommodations in town, preferably ones with internet access and an adequate notion of cleanliness.

It is currently 11:34 AM. This is Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

He waits in front of the elevator at the hospital. The sheriff said noon, and it is 11:59. Footsteps. Brisk, sturdy, purposeful.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes."

"Gregory Lestrade, sheriff."

He glances down at the man's outstretched hand, and then takes it. He's _friendly_. _Wonderful_.

"Pleasure. Sherlock Holmes, special investigator."

"You're…British?" Lestrade asks, starting off down the hall. "I thought you'd have to be American to be in the FBI."

"You do, to be an agent. I am an independent criminal profiler the FBI calls in from time to time. I normally work with Scotland Yard, but recent events have called me here."

"Well, we're glad to have you here, Mr. Holmes. Bad as this sounds, it's lucky that the missing girl stepped out over state lines and brought you in. The whole town's pretty shaken up—"

"Yes, yes, a nice quiet place like this—" Sherlock mutters, but as he has little tolerance for small talk and even less talent for it, he abruptly stops walking, turning to face the other man. "Allow me to stop you a moment. I want to make one thing clear: although I may not be an agent, I am an entity of the FBI, which gives me certain measures of authority. When the Bureau is called in, the Bureau is in charge. I am in charge. I hope for the sake of this investigation that I have your full cooperation."

Lestrade stares at him for a moment, but nods. "Like I said, we're glad you're here."

"Wonderful." He smiles the starched smile, the one for professional pleasantries. The sheriff had swallowed that authoritative edict easily—although technically, though Sherlock was indeed an entity of the FBI, he had little jurisdictive power over any federal official. But the less they knew the better, and he could have his way without any impending obstructions.

"Now, I need coffee—or more preferably, tea—and the coroner's report, in that order."

"There's a machine on the next floor and they haven't done the autopsy yet, but I can take you to the morgue when we're finished here."

"Excellent." Sherlock drawls, already feeling the building headache of receding caffeine. "Show me this missing girl."

* * *

Ronnette Pulaski had one big hill to climb, Lestrade thought as he stands over her hospital bed. The abrasions on her wrists had been wrapped, but there was no covering the large, swollen black eyes or the sweat-dampened hair. Poor girl.

"Was she raped?" Holmes asks suddenly. Lestrade startles a little at the bluntness of the question.

"Uh, yes. Several times."

"One perpetrator?"

"We're still waiting for the kit results."

"Any connection to the dead girl?" Holmes asks, beginning to circle to the other side of the bed.

"Same high school, but as far as we know, they hardly knew each other."

"Hmm. As far as you know…" Holmes straightens, looking Lestrade hard in the eye. "I'd like to question her."

Lestrade can't stop the incredulous laugh that escapes him.

"Mr. Holmes, this girl doesn't even know where she is. She's been unresponsive since Jim found her wandering over the bridge."

Holmes doesn't seem to be listening to him, focusing all of his attention on the girl. Leaning over her, he takes her limp left hand in his, drawing a small magnifying glass over her fingertips.

"They've already scraped for particles." Lestrade offers.

"That's not what I'm looking for." Sherlock replies brusquely, continuing his examination. A moment later he straightens, dropping the girl's hand with such tactless carelessness that Lestrade's brow raises. "No, there's nothing here, not a thing—"

The girl in the bed suddenly screams, once, short and full of fear.

"Don't…" She murmurs. "Don't go there."

Lestrade starts forward at her outburst, taking her right hand in his. "Ronnie? Ronnette? Can you hear me?"

But the girl sinks back into the ether she surfaced from, as quickly as she came.

Sherlock stands, throwing his coat over his arm.

"Well, this was uninformative. Take me to the morgue."

* * *

The elevator hums quietly as it descends. Apart from the other man in front of them, Lestrade and Holmes stand beside each other in silence.

There was something very odd about Holmes, something idiosyncratic apart from the rest of the world. His peculiar bluntness, the way he seemed to be wound with some strange focused tenacity…things were going to get interesting in Twin Peaks.

The door opens on the next floor and the other man steps out. As he leaves, he reveals a doctor leaning over the nurses' station, emphatically talking about some subject that his audience seems to have little interest in.

"—this fish, pulls him out of the water, and Lestrade, hey—"

He starts towards them, and Lestrade turns away quickly, but the doors close before the man can reach them.

"An old friend?" Holmes asks lowly.

"Old pain in the ass, more like." Lestrade grumbles, stepping out as the doors open.

"Lestrade! Hey!" The man bursts from the stairwell, striding determinedly towards them. "Who's the new guy?"

Sherlock doesn't miss Lestrade's flinch at his failed aversion, but the sheriff greets the man nonetheless.

"This is Sherlock Holmes, a visiting investigator from—"

"Holmes?" The man interrupts, a curious grin on his face. "Like—?"

" _Agent_ Holmes." Lestrade corrects, and Sherlock doesn't feel any need to rectify his mistake.

"Ah. FBI." The man nods.

"In a way." Sherlock intones dully.

"Dr. James Mortimer, Agent Holmes." The man holds his hand out, but Sherlock ignores it. "Rachel was a—a patient of mine. Terrible, terrible tragedy. Her parents…they didn't know that she was seeing me."

He laughs a little and Sherlock's eyes narrow, sensing that either this man is trying to be polite and share in the hivemind grief of a small town on something he knows or cares nothing of, or his facetiousness is hiding something greater, something more interesting. There's a screw loose with this one.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"Yes," Sherlock answers, brow furrowing. "Why would you want to?"

"I…thought I could be of some assistance."

"Perhaps one day." He says tonelessly, leaving the odd doctor, and rounds the corner, Lestrade hurriedly catching up to him.

"That man's a psychiatrist?"

"Yes." Lestrade sighs. "Yes he is."

* * *

The overhead licks flicker on and off as Sherlock leans over the body of Rachel Wilson, laid out on the metallic coroner's slab in the bowels of the morgue.

"I have to apologize for these lights again," The lab assistant says apologetically. "I think it's a bad transformer."

"Unnecessary." Sherlock proclaims, waiving him off as he reaches for the rotating light above him, turning it to focus on Rachel's left hand.

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade says, leaning in, "we did scrape under her nails when we brought her in."

"Yes, you did, and Ronnette Pulaski's too. I heard you. What you were looking for is not what I am looking for. Kindly refrain from reminding me of your irrelevant protocol for manicures. Thank you."

Lestrade shares a glance with the lab assistant, who shrugs with a placating smile.

"Here it is." Holmes mutters quietly, stilling as he bends down closer. "Here it is…" He looks up, towards the lab assistant. "Leave us."

"Jim." The assistant responds.

"Kindly leave us, _Jim_."

"Oh. Certainly." Jim nods then leaves the room.

"Lestrade, in the inner left pocket of my coat you'll find a small tool kit. Hand it to me."

"Your…coat?"

"Yes."

"The one on the back of your chair?"

"Yes, yes, are you an idiot?"

Lestrade bites his tongue. With the events of the day, everyone is a little high strung. He can let this one pass.

Once Holmes is handed the kit, he draws a small set of tweezers and holds Rachel's hand up to the light. Slowly, he pushes the tweezers under Rachel's ring finger, the flickering lights above having seemingly no effect on his concentration. After some prodding, he draws out something clamped and crumpled, pinched in his grasp.

With his free hand, Holmes smoothly draws a tape recorder from his trouser pocket, ignorant of Lestrade's pointed brow raise.

"Current location: Twin Peaks county morgue. Examination of the victim—"

"Rachel Wilson." Lestrade supplies, earning an annoyed glare from Holmes, and he suspects that the man doesn't much care to know her name.

"Examination of the victim led to the discovery of an object embedded under the nail of the ring finger, left hand. The same as the others."

"The others?" Lestrade asks, utterly bemused, as Holmes scrapes the particle onto a clean slide, holding it up under his magnifying lens. His eye grows large under the warped glass.

"It's an 'O'." Holmes mutters. "It's an 'O'… " Quickly, he places the dirty paper into an evidence bag, thrusting it under Greg's nose. "Seal this and label it. It's pertinent to the investigation."

"Alright, Holmes," He says, placating yet stern, "but you need to let me in on whatever the hell is going on here."

The lights flicker above them. Sherlock grins, for a moment looking quite mad.

"Graham, we have a lot to talk about."

* * *

Molly's hands couldn't stop shaking, white and strained against the steering wheel. As much as she had expected this day, as much as she knew somehow that this was what Rachel had wanted—to escape, to fly away—that great and terrible fact remained, inescapable: her friend, her _best_ friend, was dead.

Will had bolted after the announcement, throwing open the door to their classroom and walking out without another word. Molly had almost followed him, but she couldn't bring herself to move, and everything after that was blurred with soothing placations and meaningless condolences of her classmates.

She'd tried calling him, but every message went to voicemail. He didn't want to be found right now, but that wasn't going to stop her. She'd be damned if he tried to get through this alone.

Already, she knew that Sebastian was going to go after them—her first, most likely—for leaving school before he could catch her, but he was quick to reckless (and usually wrong) conclusions, and she had a head start. He'd go to the diner first, annoy Sarah until she got sick of him and kicked him out. Then maybe to Molly's house, ask her parents in his nicest veneer where she was, pretend to be the wholesome All-American boyfriend instead of the slippery little eel he turned out to be. As much as she hated it, Rachel's death gave her the chance to keep him away for a few days, maybe even for good. She didn't want to see anyone really—just finding Will was draining enough—and she wanted to see Sebastian least of all.

The air grew thicker with mist as her beat-up old wagon climbed into the mountains. It was a stretch to assume Will had come here, but if she knew him—and she knew him well—he would be in their spot, the little niche the three of them had carved into the world that was just for them.

She pulls her car off the road a little ways into the thicket, far enough away for anyone passing by to avoid hitting it, maybe even noticing it. She rests her head on the wheel, cool to the touch. Her lungs seem to quiver, each breath wracking her body as she inhales thinly, shakily. No one else is left in the world who knows her like Rachel did. No one but Will.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she opens the door and steps into the light, foggy air. Undergrowth crunching as she walks, she rounds her car, heading deeper into the glen. As the trees begin to thin in anticipation of the cliffside, she spots it: a gleaming black motorcycle.

Will is here.

* * *

John sighs, stooping over his coffee at the counter. Someone put on some fatuous, ridiculous jazz song on the jukebox and it fills the hole-in-the-wall diner with a weird molasses-like malaise. Or maybe that's just what today will be like, with the news breaking all over town—or maybe it will be like this forever now, maybe—

"Need anything else John?" Sarah asks, refilling his cup as he surfaces out of his thoughts, rubbing at his face. His cup this morning feeling as if it was a thousand years ago, and it's only just past noon.

"I need this song to end." He grumbles, nodding his thanks as he tears open a packet of sugar.

Sarah chuckles, but it falls from her face after a moment. She glances around the diner—nearly empty at this time of day—and leans closer to him.

"John, are you—will you be alright?"

He sits back, mulling his answer for a moment. "I think I will. She was just so young, Sarah. And her body—the brutality of it—it's just hard to take in. Hard to accept that it happened here, of all places."

"I know what you mean." Sarah sighs. "It's just so sad and sudden…the horror of it will stick around a long time, I think. This isn't something you can just get over and be done with it."

John nods. "I don't know why I'm so stuck on it. I saw worse in combat—much worse—but I can't stop thinking about it. About her."

Sarah studies him a moment and he's reminded of how she used to look at him when they were in school together, across the desks during science class. Like she couldn't make much sense of him, but she was trying to. And she might have, if he had let her, if he hadn't enlisted straight after graduation.

"You knew her, John."

"But I knew all the others too. Why is she any different?"

Sarah doesn't answer, and he's glad. At least she doesn't know either.

The bell rings as the door opens. They both glance over.

"Lestrade." John greets and receives a nod from his friend.

"A cup of coffee please, Sarah." Lestrade says, sitting down beside him. One look at the man could tell him everything about the day he's been having, but John asks anyways.

"I'll be happy when it's over." The sheriff sighs, accepting his mug with a nod.

"Lestrade," a deep voice says behind them, "I have a few questions concerning the lodging in town. Is there any place with acceptable internet access and some notion of cleanliness?"

John turns around, eyeing the newcomer. Tall, dark, handsome. He's wearing a look of vague condescension, as if even asking is beneath him, and his voice is a low trembling bass.

"You could try the Great Northern." John suggests and the man looks at him. It wouldn't be a leap to assume he hadn't even realized John was there. He sweeps over John with one glance.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinks, taken off-guard by the question. "Which one do you think it was?"

The man pauses, looking over him again. "Your left hand has an intermittent tremor, along with calluses which indicate consistent gun use. You're far too tan for this climate, so active duty must not have been so long ago. Considering the ongoing withdrawal of American military force from Iraq redirected into Afghanistan, I would have to say the latter is more likely for you to have experienced intense and recent warfare.

Your cell phone is also several years out of date, suggesting that either you don't have the money to buy a new one or you haven't bothered to upgrade, yet your clothes are, more or less, newly purchased, therefore you are not lacking in adequate funds. Your phone is advanced enough to be useful, yet if you truly cared for any other technological functions, you would have gotten a better one. Your hesitancy to do so suggests that you were involved in a lifestyle where cellular communication was sparse or otherwise not a priority. The army is the most likely option. So," The man tilts his head slightly, considering him, "have I missed anything?"

John smiles. "Not particularly. But I could be a technologically-impaired visitor with poor motor coordination just passing through town."

"You could be," the man concedes, "But it's obvious that you're familiar enough with and in the town that you're not some visitor. Plus," the man adds, something akin to a smirk appearing on his face, "your dog tags are hanging out of your shirt, John Watson."

John looks down and chuckles. "Amazing." He mutters, almost to himself, and from the corner of his eye he sees the man straighten.

"You implied that I missed something. What was it?"

"Ah, yes. About my deployment; I didn't serve with the U.S. Army."

The other man frowns, the lines deepening his face into something more severe. "Were you a private contractor? You don't seem to be affluent enough...if you were hard pressed to find success in exploiting militarized operations then you must not have been a very good salesman."

"No, nothing like that. I'm Canadian."

The frown disappears and a small grin appears on his face. "There's always something."

"John," Lestrade intercedes, "this is Sherlock Holmes. He's helping investigate on behalf of the FBI. Sherlock, this is Dr. Watson."

"Pleasure." Sherlock says, holding out his hand stiffly.

"Yeah," John repeats, "a pleasure."

He shakes his hand and Sherlock looks at him a moment before turning to Lestrade.

"George, I need you to take me to the Great Northern."

John watches them leave, and wonders if it is indeed a pleasure or not to have met this man.

"Well he's something, isn't he?" Sarah sighs, the two of them staring through the window as Sherlock climbs into the police jeep, coat billowing behind him.

"Yeah," John mutters. "He sure is something."

* * *

Arriving back at the station, Lestrade shrugs off his coat, Sherlock breezing past him. That man would strain a saint, but if they were going to get anything done, they needed him. And as ostentatious as he was, he was smart and he was clever; perhaps given enough time he would even become amenable.

"This glorified treehouse is your police station?" Holmes says loudly. "One stray match would burn this whole thing to the ground in an instant, you know. It'd do this forgettable little town some good."

Or…perhaps he would stay this way.

He led Holmes to the conference room where he had the available officers already gathered, preferring to get introductions out of the way with one fell swoop.

"Everyone, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's an investigator with the FBI; he's here, as I'm sure you all know, because of Rachel Wilson."

"Holmes?" An officer frowns. "As in—?"

"Yes, Holmes. H-O-L-M-E-S." Sherlock spells out. "Now may we stop standing around and staring at each other and get to work?"

"Are you typically this rude?" The same officer asks, voicing a question Lestrade has been asking himself all day.

"What's your name?"

"Anderson."

"Anderson," Holmes nods. "The answer is yes. Now get out."

"I'm sorry?"

"Get out," He repeats, "Leave, go home, I don't care, but get out."

Anderson looks to Lestrade as if he has any say in the matter and he shrugs. He'd rather not alienate Holmes so soon, not when he's the best chance at catching whoever murdered Rachel; not if they're still on the loose, maybe out to kill again.

"You heard him, Anderson." He says wearily. "Have the rest of the day off."

The officer glares at him incredulously, but leaves. He's going to have to answer for that one later.

"Now," Holmes sighs, "That's out of the way. Let's get started."

"Sir," Donovan asks, siding up to Greg as everyone breaks off, wandering into their various duties. "Are you sure we need him here?"

"Yes, unfortunately." Greg answers. "I know he's not the most pleasant person to be around, but we need him Sally. I've been with him half a day already and I can tell you he's brilliant. Maddeningly so. He'll catch whoever did this."

Together, he and Sally look over to where Holmes is bossing another officer around, giving them a laundry list of items to retrieve from the evidence locker. He's already made himself at home, his coat hanging haphazardly off one of the chairs.

"I hope you're right, sir."

"Yeah." Lestrade grimaces. "I hope I am too."

His phone rings in his pocket and he ducks a hand in to answer it.

"Henry?"

"I've found it, Sheriff." The man answers, sounding as if he'd been wrung out to dry. Knowing Henry, knowing his tendency towards becoming emotionally over-involved at crime scenes, he'd already been crying before this.

"You've found what, Henry?" Lestrade asks, trying not to let his irritancy at Henry's lack of necessary composure seep into his voice, and he notices Holmes' head dart up, looking towards him as he speaks.

"Where it happened. I found it. It's horrible. It's—" He stops, devolving into great gasping tears.

"Henry, take a moment and get yourself together, alright?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…it's just so awful. Tell them I didn't cry, alright? Tell them…I didn't—I didn't—" He breaks off into sobs again and Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose. Henry's inconvenient empathy was well-known around the station, and often a favorite of the officers to pick at, much to his disappointment.

"Henry, look—"

"I found it." He gasps. "I found where they killed Rachel."


	2. M

The dogs are barking furiously, straining at their leashes to break away and run towards their sought-after prize. Sherlock sympathizes.

Henry is waiting outside a large train car, clearly long abandoned and looking as if it was half burned down, ready to collapse in with the next hard rain.

Lestrade puts a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder and he looks ready to descend into tears again. Sherlock frowns, looking the officer over. It was not a weak constitution that was the source of his distress. Something else. Mark it; return later.

Just before he followed Lestrade up into the cab, he stops and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he categorizes the raw data. Douglas fir, pinewood, rust, but covering it all is something burnt and stringent—engine oil?

He takes another breath, as muddled and disgusting as it is. It has to be oil, has that greasy unmistakable smell. He looks back up to the train car, noting the fire damage—it's not recent, at least a decade old, so why this fresh burnt smell? And this particular one: it's the only carriage in the yard with this kind of damage. The others are all certainly out of date, but nowhere near as decimated as this.

With a curious look on his face, he climbs into the train car.

Darkness. Lestrade's form is illuminated by his lone torch, scanning the filthy, degraded interior.

It's most definitely the crime scene they were looking for; the dogs made sure of that, but the blood doesn't lie. It's painted and pooled on almost every surface they can see.

Sherlock pulls out his old tape recorder; a bit bulky to carry, but it's impossible to hack a tape so it's ideal for his research.

"It is currently 4:10 in the afternoon at the scene of the crime. The location is a disused train car about ten miles from town. There are numerous blood splatters indicating that the victim was struck multiple times with a heavy object; the clawed end of a hammer, then. In front of me there is a golden necklace with a ring hanging on the chain; there is a green stone inscribed with what looks to be a diamond shape between two converging triangles.

There is also a torn piece of paper half a foot to the right with the inscription—most likely in blood—'Fire Walk With Me'. Immediately below is the word 'rache', R-A-C-H-E, carved into the floor."

"Why would she try to write her own name?"

"Unimportant." Sherlock says, standing up. "There was no residue under her nails; she didn't write this. Neither did Ronette. Do use your head."

"So, what now?"

Sherlock bends down again, hooking the golden chain around a finger.

"We find out what this means."

* * *

Molly lays her head against Will's shoulder, the two of them staring at the small golden ring, glinting in the light. The delicate filigree - the shape similar to a W with a diamond at the bottom - was enthralling.

"She said she wanted me to have it." Will mutters, frowning. "But—Molly, she was practically screaming at me—she said that I could never wear it."

"Will you?"

He laughs bitterly. "Look at it, it's too small; it'd never fit."

The birds sing in the trees, ducking in and out, and soar out over the valley below them. Molly doesn't feel as if she'd burst into tears anymore, she just feels numb. This spot that she and Will share absorbs their grief, soaking it into the ground and leaving them both empty. How can the birds be flying on a day like this?

"What was she like?" She asks quietly. "You know, before…when you saw her."

Will sighs, closing the ring in his fist.

"It was kind of like a nightmare. Molly…she was a _different_ person. There were things she was involved with—things she let herself get pulled into that she thought we'd hate her for…she said there are things about me…she said even Molly doesn't know me."

"I knew her." Molly says, not defiantly but in reassurance of the fact. "I knew her better than she thought I did."

The Pink Room. That black velvet jacket. Rachel screaming at her, screaming not to wear her things, not to be like her, but Molly had seen enough. She'd seen Rachel—really seen her—and Molly had known then that not only was her best friend sinking down into the dark, but she was going to let herself be consumed by it. _Nighttime is my time_ , she'd said.

"Molly," Will continues, calling her back to him, "she said something about a guy getting killed. She didn't say who, but…she said Sebastian killed someone."

Alarmed, she raises her head off Will's shoulder, staring at him incredulously.

"We knew her best and…I can't help thinking that it all makes some kind of terrible sense that she died, that someone killed her. I don't know, I don't know what to think anymore.

She was hysterical last night. I couldn't calm her down; I could hardly keep her on the bike. We stopped at the light at Sparkwood and 21. She grabbed me around the neck and she screamed she loved me – I looked in her eyes and it was like she was Rachel again. But she was so sad, she sounded so desperate...and then she ran off. And that was the last time I saw her..." His lip begins to tremble. "The way she said it, that she loved me…" Will breaks out of his reverie, looking at Molly with the most desolate expression she'd ever seen. "And I let her go. I let her go and then she died."

"Will…" Molly leans forward, wrapping her arms around him. "Will, it's not your fault. You were her good thing. You were."

"You were too, Molly." He smiles, laying a hand over hers. For a moment it is only the two of them and though there once was three, they are comforted in the fact that at least they remained.

"What do we do now?" Will asks quietly.

Molly doesn't know, and so the question floats into the air, out among the birds.

* * *

She bites her lip, concentrating on the task at hand.

"Irene."

Twirling the pencil _just so_ , she pushes it further into the cup, the Styrofoam squeaking loudly in protest.

" _Irene_."

She deigns to glance up, looking supremely put-upon at this intrusion on her time.

"Your father gave me implicit instructions: do not disturb the Norwegians. Alright?"

"Alright, Bob." She gives him a thumbs-up. "All right."

"My name isn't Bob, it's—"

Irene suddenly pulls the pencil out of the cup, spilling the contents onto the table.

"Aw," she tsks, "Bob! Look what you made me do!"

"Irene!"

She stands loudly, striding out of the dining room and leaving the faceless little lackey to clean up her mess.

Wandering around the lobby, she catches the sound of some foreign language echoing out from the conference room. Her smile grows with each step as she imagines what she'll say this time to ruin her father's ambitious business plans.

She pulls on a pouty moue as she ambles into the room. The idiot in charge keeps rambling about whatever pointless numbers and figures which mean so much them that they'd fly across the world to this boring hole.

There's lunch spread out on a table; buttered rolls, cherry pie, a whole sugared ham. Gluttons.

"Is something wrong, pretty girl?" The idiot asks, finally broken out of that matrix of nothingness to notice her.

 _Oh, this will be_ _delicious_ _._

"They found my friend Rachel, lying face down on a rocky beach. Completely naked. She'd been _murdered_."

The room falls silent, save for the chairs creaking as all the men look to one another to see how they should react to the news.

And Irene—Irene could _cry_ from the beauty of it.

* * *

He can't sleep.

24 hours ago, Rachel Wilson was still alive.

Why does that bother him?

John turns over in his bed, gazing out of the window into the dark night. He can just make himself out in the glass, melding with the cool forest.

He hasn't been himself since he got back. There was something in him—some nerve—that was disassociating itself from the rest of the world, and it was taking him back down into that dark water where everything was dream, only a dream, and nothing mattered. Certainly not a blissful oblivion, but a viable alternative. A dullness to living.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, Rachel's death made him feel…better. Like it was proof that something in his life—in this town—could change. And it was exciting, in a way.

He tossed the covers back, reaching over to turn on the light.

A face, right there in the window. Looking at him.

He startles, moving to pull his gun from the drawer beside him, but when he sits back up, there is nothing there but his own reflection.

It hadn't been himself that he'd seen—was it?

Willing himself to calm down, he breathes in deeply and lets it tumble back out again. If anyone meant to rob him, they wouldn't find much of value. If they meant otherwise—he had his gun.

But he wasn't just going to sit here and wait for something to happen either. Shrugging on his longjohns and jeans, he tucks his gun at his side and heads for his shoes.

It's quiet outside, and the lake is shimmering and still with the lateness of the hour. Slowly scanning his surroundings, he makes his way around his house.

No footprints.

He braces himself against the side of the cabin and glances around the corner to his bedroom. Nothing. But he advances carefully, his gun held steadily in front of him. A rank smell reaches him, something burnt but pungent and greasy, almost like engine oil.

He stops outside his window. From the light of his room, he makes out a message seemingly burned into the dirt:

 _Fire Walk With Me_

* * *

It's well past midnight when the station door opens. A light tapping sounds through the quiet office, followed by slow footsteps.

Sherlock is engrossed in his review of the evidence, though not too far gone to miss the movement outside the door. Outside the window, an owl hoots loudly in the quiet night.

A dark figure, a dweller on the threshold.

"What do you want?"

"Sherlock," his brother smiles, stepping into the room. "I'd heard you were in town."

"One of your little spies?" Sherlock intones dully, supremely uninterested in anything Mycroft has to offer.

"In a sense." Mycroft responds, infuriatingly vague as usual. He taps the tip of his umbrella against the cheap linoleum; Sherlock can practically hear the message as if it was in Morse code. _Tap tap tap_. _Over your head already? What a pity. Tap tap tap._

"Sherlock, are you sure this is wise?"

"I have no idea what you mean." He sniffs, deliberately obtuse.

"She was addicted to cocaine, among other more intangible things. You are walking a fine line involving yourself in this town, brother mine."

"Cocaine." Sherlock smirks to himself. "And how do you know about that?"

"One of my little spies." His brother answers with an answering smug grin.

Sherlock toys with the ring. The meaning of the symbol embossing the stone still eluded him, but he had yet to exhaust either the public library or the internet in search of it.

"Little miss prom queen and her little twee drug problem."

"You understand my points of concern, I trust?"

"Is that all you came here to do, Mycroft? Rub your ferrety snout in places where it doesn't belong? I haven't used any sort of anything in almost a year, no thanks to you."

"I do believe it _is_ thanks to me. Need I remind you where you were before this, before I gave you nigh-unlimited access to the world's best puzzles? Your position is precarious, brother dear, and if you descend back into that mess of a man gurgling to himself on the sidewalk, then this fieldtrip of yours is over. No more games, no more cases, no more F.B.I involvement. I would hate to see such a mind go to waste."

"Is that a threat?"

Mycroft scoffs. "You would know if it was a threat, Sherlock. Don't be so benighted. It's beneath you."

He reaches into his coat pocket and draws out a small glassine bag and holds it in front of his brother's face.

"A key?"

"A _deposit_ key." Mycroft corrects, bringing the bag out of Sherlock's grasp when he reaches for it.

Brow creasing, Sherlock looks closer.

"Cocaine." He says finally. "That's where she kept it."

"You see why I cannot give it to you."

"But there's nothing left!" Sherlock protests.

"There's enough. I simply wanted to show you proof."

Mycroft withdraws the key, careful to wipe it on a handkerchief he pulls from his pocket before handing it to his brother.

"I suggest you start with that, brother mine."

Sullenly, Sherlock relents, taking the key as if it offended him.

"I know that it is natural for you to behave this way." Mycroft starts and Sherlock sighs inwardly at what can only be the beginning of another long and tedious monologue. "You see me as a threat to your independence, and I understand that after all that has occurred between us you find it difficult to trust me. I must implore you, however, to find it within yourself to do so, and to do so with haste. We do not have a great deal of time to waste here, Sherlock, and whatever it is that you've begrudged me must wait until we are done in the town of Twin Peaks. For now, I will leave you to your work. I wish you luck."

And with that, his brother nods, leaving the room seemingly as soon as he appeared in it.

Now newly alone, Sherlock turns his attention to the key in his hand. A deposit box, Mycroft had said. Even if any bank was open, he'd have to produce a court order to retrieve it. Or he could otherwise influence whatever mindless teller worked at the desk. He'd keep his options open.

Turning back to the box of evidence pulled from the Wilson house, he fishes around before drawing out a book. A book? Of all the insipid, witless choices—oh.

There, in neat handwriting: _this is the diary of Rachel Wilson_.

The page falls open to the beginning.

"Day One…" He mutters, gaze darting over the flowery script. There's a large space left blank on the opposite page before the writing continues, a space almost the size of—

That weasel-nosed insidious bastard. He'd already wormed his way into the investigation, bribed or threatened some dull employee to show him the evidence locker and he'd stuck his elephantine paunch where it didn't belong, just to calm his histrionic notion that Sherlock would start using again because of a speck of cocaine.

He flips through the book, stopping at the last entry.

" _Day Eighteen. Eight o'clock. Asparagus for dinner again. I hate asparagus. Does this mean I'll never grow up?_

 _Nervous about meeting M._ "

Well. That was interesting.

"'Nervous about meeting M'…" He mutters, tapping at the words as if it will enlighten him. In his other hand, he fiddles with the ring, running his thumb over the smooth stone. Maybe M would know what this ring meant.

"All right?" A voice asks from the doorway. Startled from his thoughts, Sherlock realizes that his other senses had gone into standby, ignoring his surroundings as his attention was sucked down the drain of that stupefying golden ring.

"Dr. Watson." He says lowly, surprised that anyone is up at this hour, much less out and about in such an adventureless town. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I couldn't sleep." John explains, stepping into the room. The dim light catches on his sandy hair, touched by gray. "Thought I'd stop by with the kit results and see if you needed my help."

Sherlock stares at him a moment, perplexed.

"Why would I need your help?"

John raises an eyebrow. "Well, if you _don't_ want the kit results, I could just go on back home and save them until morning—"

He turns to leave.

"No!" Sherlock starts. "No. I do. Want them. Sit." He says, indicating the seat opposite him.

John sits, opening his bag and drawing out a plain folder. He swallows roughly before he opens it, settling back in his chair.

"Time of death is estimated to have been between midnight and 4 am. The cause was loss of blood from multiple stab wounds. She also had lesions on her upper arms and wrists, probably from whatever was binding her, the same as Ronette Pulaski." John steels himself for the next part; writing the report was hard enough, but it was one thing to write it down and quite another to say it out loud, to give it a voice and present it as fact.

"You know that Rachel was raped. Multiple times."

"Yes."

"There was more than one person; she'd had sex with at least three men the night she died, but it's unknown as to if they were all consensual. My guess is that none of them were."

"Any DNA matches?"

"We don't have the equipment here; I had to send it to Seattle. Farther away but better analysis. We're waiting on the toxicology reports. Those'll take a few days."

Sherlock is silent for a moment, fingers steepled in front of him as he thinks.

"Are you expecting to find anything unusual?" He asks finally.

"Unusual…in what sense?"

Sherlock opens his eyes, catching John's gaze. "I believe Rachel Wilson had a drug problem, most likely cocaine, although I haven't ruled out heroin or a pill addiction."

"Rachel?" John asks, bemused. "You're saying Rachel Wilson was a drug abuser? I don't believe it."

"Have you ever been surprised, Doctor Watson? I imagine there are quite a few things you could come to believe if you broadened your horizons."

"And what made you think that she was using cocaine?"

Sherlock smiles, enigmatic. "A little bird flew in and told me."

"Okay…" John frowns, unsatisfied but willing to overlook such an odd answer. "Why cocaine? Why not—I don't know, pot or acid? Crack? Bath salts?" He adds, upon Sherlock's sour look at being made fun of: "I'm broadening my horizons, Mr. Holmes."

"Don't call me that. I told you, call me Sherlock. And furthermore, your conclusions are ridiculous. LSD is too experimental for her and marijuana is too boring. All of her teeth are in good condition, so the other two ludicrous options are also invalid. Cocaine was enough—just enough—to make her forget."

"How could you possibly know that?"

He's quiet for a moment. Doesn't answer. But there is something in his face—something inscrutable and distant and maybe even sad—that makes John wonder for the first time who this man was before he came here; who he is outside of what he does.

As if to save Sherlock from giving an adequate response, the station radio crackles to life from the corner.

"Backup unit to the Roadhouse effective immediately."

Sherlock grins, checking his watch. "About time. Onward into the fray."

He stands, shrugging on his impossibly long coat as he strides out of the room.

Suddenly alone, John tries not to feel forgotten. He sighs, imagining the cold house and that darkness waiting for him, swollen and tender with those awful dreams.

Sherlock ducks his head back in. "Coming?"

John responds instantly, as if in reflex.

"Oh God, yes."

For such a small town, the Roadhouse was truly a new low. While those superfluously decent townspeople slept in the comfort of their homes, they evaded what Sherlock surmised was the most interesting place in town. Drunks milled about in the parking lot, tossing used bottles to the ground without a care. A neon sign illuminated the darkness. Sherlock points as he and John pass under it, giving it a two gun salute: _bangbang_.

The cloud of cigarette smoke that greets them at the door is almost enough to bring him to his knees; it's as if he's died and gone to heaven. Cigarette heaven.

The scum! The lowlifes! The dredge of the ages! Everywhere he looks offers possibility. No fight has broken out yet, but there wouldn't have been a call for backup otherwise, and out of the available pool he and John could certainly qualify.

Someone passes by him and by coincidence their eyes meet. He's young—a teenager—and his outfit screams biker. No sooner does he walk by than two boys his age come up to him, their air of caricaturized intimidation laughably juvenile. A girl is trying to pull the biker away, tugging uselessly at his arm.

"Molly?" John questions, frowning as he starts forward.

One of the goons grabs her, shoving her aside as he yells something at her. John hauls him off the girl, moving to check on her and oblivious to the other boy approaching behind him.

"Light's out Doctor Goodall!"

He joins his hands and hits John solidly over the head with his elbows, sending him crumpling to the ground. As the girl screams the bar descends into nuclear bedlam like a spark to gasoline. The two goons are leapt on by the biker and what Sherlock can only assume is the rest of his gang, waiting in the wings for him to make his move.

He makes his way towards the injured doctor, ducking flying punches and splintering chairs. A grin comes to his face, not only unbidden by the circumstances but growing with the wild action surrounding him.

He drags John out of the way, making sure his head is kept still, and snatches the girl by the arm as he walks. The biker has disappeared from the fight, but as he scans the room he can seem him duck behind the bar.

"Keep his head in your hands, make sure he keeps breathing!" He shouts to her, already shrugging off his coat. The biker is almost to the back exit, but he can catch him if he moves fast enough.

The game is on!


End file.
